Tales of the City 03 - Further Tales of the City

at the door, had returned to a bed of rags in a corner near the fire. He looked up and wagged his tail at her appeasingly, apologizing perhaps for such an effortless abandonment of his Nob Hill lifestyle.
    Prue blew on her coffee, then looked about her. “This is … just fascinating,” she said. She meant it, too.
    The man chuckled. “Every kid loves a playhouse,” he said.
    Then he is like Ben, thought Prue.
    A further examination of the room revealed additional touches of boyish whimsy. Ball fringe over the bed, forming a faux-canopy. A can of sharpened pencils on a shelf above the “sofa.” A soot-streaked map of the city tacked to the wall above the fire.
    Over the doorway hung a plywood plaque, its lettering laboriously crafted in bent twigs:
    THOSE WHO DO NOT
REMEMBER THE PAST
ARE CONDEMNED
TO REPEAT IT
    Prue smiled when she read it. “That’s nice,” she said.
    “Santayana,” replied the man. “Life of Reason.”
    “Excuse me?”
    The man seemed to study her for a moment, then said quietly: “Why don’t you take your dog now?”
    “Oh … of course. I didn’t mean to keep you.”
    The man went to the bed of rags and roused the wolfhound. “C’mon, Whitey. Time to go, boy.” Vuitton rose awkwardly to his feet and licked the man’s hand excitedly. “He thinks we’re going exploring,” explained his keeper. “I made a leash for him, if you want it.”
    He opened a box next to Vuitton’s bed. It contained canned dog food, a battered grooming brush, and a length of rope with a handmade leather tag reading WHITEY . The top of the box said WHITEY in bent twigs.
    Earlier, Prue had felt real resentment about this alien name; now, for some reason, she thought she might cry.
    She fumbled in her bag. “Please … I insist on reimbursing you for your …”
    “No,” said the man sharply. Then, in a sober tone: “The pleasure was mine.”
    “Well …” She looked about her, suddenly at a loss for words. The man clipped the rope on Vuitton’s collar and handed it to Prue.
    “Thank you,” she said as earnestly as possible. “Thank you so much … Luke, isn’t it?”
    The man nodded. “If you’re ever back in these parts, I wouldn’t mind a visit from him.”
    “Of course, of course …” She had nothing further to say as she led Vuitton away from the shack and up the steep, sandy slope. The wolfhound went willingly, barking his goodbye when they reached the top of the rise.
    But the door of the shack was closed again.

Off to Hollywood
    N ED LOCKWOOD’S PICKUP WAS PARKED ON LEAVENWORTH when Mary Ann came down the rickety wooden stairway from Barbary Lane. He offered her a jaunty salute, cupping his huge hand against his forehead. His bald pate was tanned the color of saddle leather.
    “He’ll be down in a minute,” she said. “He’s trying to choose between fifteen different shades of Lacostes.”
    Ned grinned and threw up his hands, bringing them to rest on the steering wheel. “So where are you off to?”
    Mary Ann mugged. “Work. Not all of us get to spend the weekend with a movie star.” She held up a large Hefty Bag. “Care for a darling bow-wow?”
    Ned looked into the bag. “Stuffed animals? What for?”
    “My show. What else?”
    “They’re some sort of bargain, huh?”
    “Factory seconds. God, it’s so depressing, Ned. Get me out of here, will you? Abduct me or something. Hasn’t________got an extra cabana he could hide me in?”
    Ned smiled. “I’m afraid it’s one of his all-boy weekends.”
    “How dumb,” said Mary Ann.
    “I think so, too. But he’s sort of an old-world fag.”
    “Big deal. Couldn’t I be an old-world fag hag?”
    Ned threw back his head and laughed. “I wish he could be that comfortable about it.”
    Mary Ann managed a smile herself. “So you’re leaving me to my misery, huh?”
    “You’re a star,” said Ned. “Stars aren’t supposed to be miserable.”
    “Who’s a star?” A cheap ploy to fish for praise, but right now she’d take anything she could get.
    The nurseryman shrugged. “My aunt in the East Bay says you’re a star. She watches your show all the time.”
    “Harlequin glasses, right?”
    Ned grinned.
    “Not to mention Harlequin books. And a bedroom full of yarn poodles that she made on her doodle-loom. Am I right?”
    “Actually,” said Ned, “she makes braided rugs out of old neckties.”
    “Right,” nodded Mary Ann.
    Michael appeared at the top of the stairway, decked out in an apricot Polo